‘Bates,’ said Tom, turning his eyes from me to the mate, ‘it’s under the Southern Cross you named just now that I mean to seek my lodging for life. Since it’s come to this, I would to God this lady were my wife. But it’s to be brought about. Patience! Patience! Oh, Bates, how often have I whispered this word “patience” to myself! But the consideration kinks the line for running, Bates. Long ago my mind was resolved that if ever I stole or got my liberty and had this true heart at my side, I’d dwell in the middle of the ocean in the very loneliest of the islands that are washed by salt water. D’ye know Tristan d’Acunha?’ ‘Tristan d’Acunha!’ muttered Will, staring at me. ‘It’s inhabited,’ said Tom. ‘I’ve been ashore there, talked with Corporal Glass, sat in his house, made him presents.’ ‘An Englishman?’ said I. ‘Once an English soldier, getting on to be an old man now, Marian; ill of a cancer that will kill him; an honest man who’ll welcome us. But there’s no clergyman; there was none in my time.’ ‘The Cape isn’t many weeks off,’ said Bates. ‘No, and that’s in my mind, too. There are parsons there,’ said Tom, ‘and vessels to carry us to the island again; you and Will ’ll take the salvage you’ll get on this brig at Cape Town, and so home.’ ‘English men-of-war touch at Tristan,’ said Will. ‘One in about eighteen years; whalers often enough, Marian, to find us fresh safety in the South Seas should a fit of flitting take us. There are goods under here,’ said he, stamping the deck, ‘that’ll earn us a cordial hand-grip at Tristan. They’ll represent my share of the salvage. Why, it’s right that a convict should take what he wants, hey, Bates? My life will be in your hands, of course.’ ‘I wish there was no other risk,’ said the mate. ‘Marian, this is not my scheme of this moment,’ said Tom, sitting down beside me. ‘I found it there,’ said he, pointing to the sea and meaning the convict ship. ‘But a new thought has come out of Bates’s words; we’ll touch at the island and I’ll have a talk with Glass, get help to carry us to a port, and we’ll return in a hired craft man and wife.’ I gave him my hand to hold; I could have wept with happiness to hear him talk thus. I had feared throughout that, loving me too well to yoke me to his fate, he would oblige me to go home with Will and the mate, and hide himself alone. ‘Are you in earnest, Butler?’ said Mr. Bates. ‘Brutally in earnest.’ ‘Saints, Marian! What’ll father and mother think to hear of you as living on Tristan d’Acunha?’ cried Will. ‘That’s where it is!’ exclaimed Tom fiercely, rounding upon the boy, ‘I shan’t be safe!’ ‘Not as my cousin’s husband?’ said Will. ‘Who’d talk?’ I frowned to silence him. I wanted no ill feeling between these two. ‘Who’s this Glass you speak of, Butler?’ said the mate.